


Like Real People Do

by cadastre



Series: Promises Made and Kept [2]
Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: And Trevor doing his best to help, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Happy Ending, Loss of Virginity, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, This is basically just Sypha being thirsty as hell, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27130067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadastre/pseuds/cadastre
Summary: For a while Sypha thinks that Trevor has forgotten their appointment at an inn.He does not mention it for an entire week after they defeat Dracula, doesn’t give any indication that the conversation (and what accompanied it) ever happened. Sypha flatters herself that she has an unusually strong grip on her mind (for a human), but the waiting is driving her crazy.
Relationships: Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades
Series: Promises Made and Kept [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980206
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53





	Like Real People Do

**Author's Note:**

> A couple people asked for a follow up to "Walk Me Home" and I decided, sure, why not? So months later here's 5.5K words of 100% pure unadulterated smut with a thin veneer of prose to keep it in its shape. I adore you, you thirsty bastards.
> 
> Un-beta'd, barely proof-read.
> 
> Title from Hozier's "Like Real People Do."

For a while Sypha thinks that Trevor has forgotten their appointment at an inn.

He does not mention it for an entire week after they defeat Dracula, doesn’t give any indication that the conversation (and what accompanied it) ever happened. Sypha flatters herself that she has an unusually strong grip on her mind (for a human), but the waiting is driving her crazy.

The nights she spends alone in her bedroll in the back of the wagon do not help either.

As she stares up at the canvas roof, pale in the moonlight, she can hear Trevor rustling as he shifts by the fire. She considers getting up, climbing out of the wagon and going to him, asking him to kiss her (bed her) _here_ and _now_ , fine inns be damned.

But something holds her back, for seven painful, sleepless days.

 _What if he **has** forgotten?_ she first wonders. The look she catches in his eyes occasionally makes her think he has not, though: he watches her, and she is certain he is thinking about the cell in Dracula’s tower.

Which then makes her wonder, _What if he regrets his promise, and that is why he will not bed me?_ The thought shouldn’t matter, should be the least of her concerns, but it still stings. She remembers the noises Trevor made in the cell, remembers the way his cock strained in his hand as he told her about what he would like to do to her, and she remembers how much she had _liked_ the thought of Trevor Belmont wanting her. It should not matter, that perhaps he was simply trying to make it easier for her if Isaac truly did mean to follow through on his threat, but somehow it does. Somehow it makes her sad, makes her see how shabby and worn her robes have become, makes her compare herself with all of the busty tavern wenches and graceful noble women they meet on the roads. She may be smart, may have helped kill Dracula and save Wallachia, but she is neither busty nor elegant and she feels helpless when facing what she lacks.

And she cannot forget the cells: cannot forget the raw desire still warming her chest: cannot forget the sound of Trevor’s voice in her ears as she touched herself and came, as she touches herself and comes again at night alone in the wagon.

She does not say anything to Trevor about any of it for the entire week.

He seems to have a destination in mind, as they travel slowly along the roads, but he does not seem inclined to say where it is. Instead, they wend their way through the forests and fields, with the sun warming them during the day and the moon shining on them at night.

On the eighth day, Sypha decides she has had enough.

 _It is better to know he has forgotten, or that he never wanted me in the first place_ , she tells herself firmly as she packs up her bedroll in the morning. _It is better than wondering and wondering until I go mad._

She opens her mouth to demand whether he intends to keep his promise, but finds the words will not come. Trevor looks over at her, sees the question on her lips, and raises an eyebrow. The heat blooms and bubbles up in between her ribs, bright and burning as always, like magic or a properly recited story. Oh, she is lost, and she knows it.

“Where are we going? We have been traveling for a whole week,” she croaks instead before looking down at her sandals.

Trevor nods, like he has been expecting the question.

“We’ll be there this afternoon. We’re almost there, I promise. Trust me?”

She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t trust him, not after the myriad of ways he’s been avoiding touching her all week, not after him forgetting (or worse, ignoring) his promise. But he gives her a lopsided grin and her heart stutters and there is nothing she can do but nod and return a shaky one of her own.

\--------------------

It is an inn.

A _fine_ inn, Sypha thinks in disbelief as they round the bend in the road. It is a tall structure, several stories at least, with diamond-paned casement windows, a steep shingled roof, and white stuccoed walls partially submerged in climbing roses. A large porch sprawls out to one side, shielded from the afternoon sun by brightly patterned fabric, and flowers bloom in a riot all around.

Her heart picks up a little. _He did not forget_ , she realizes, eyes wide at the sight of it. _**He remembered.**_

And it occurs to her, as the stable hand takes their wagon and horses away, that their arrival here is not a coincidence. _This was the inn he was thinking of, when he was talking me through it. He had one in mind. He has been here before._

 _Which means he intends to fulfill his promise, all of it._ Sypha can feel a blush spread across her cheeks at the thought.

She is so distracted with the thought, with the beautiful building they are walking towards, that she almost runs into Trevor’s back as he stops and turns. He looks at her for a second before speaking, like he is collecting his thoughts, and Sypha can’t help but notice a very faint blush rise on his neck.

“I-I wanted to keep my promise to you.” He swallows heavily (nervously), and the heat is back in her chest, molten and shining. “This…this was the finest inn I could think of. But if you’ve changed your mind, if you don’t want to anymore, we can get separate rooms. I just, I wanted to check before we went inside. So you wouldn’t feel as if you…as if we _had_ to.” And then as an afterthought, “We don’t! I won’t be upset.”

He looks so worried and hopeful that Sypha would laugh, if her heart wasn’t pounding in her ears. She shouldn’t be scared, there is no _reason_ to be scared, but she is, a little. She is no coward though, not in the face of evil and not in the face of…this, whatever it may be. So instead of fleeing or falling silent, she reaches out and takes his hand in her own. It is surprisingly large and heavily callused, and she cannot help but imagine what it would (what it _will_ ) feel like on her skin, her shoulders and hips and breasts.

She smiles.

“No, Trevor Belmont, I would like it very much if you kept your promise.”

Trevor’s grin makes the sun look dull by comparison. For someone whose face is so painfully ill-suited to smiling, he certainly has a good smile, Sypha thinks dreamily as he turns and pulls her gently down the path to the front door.

\--------------------

Their room is not the finest room in the inn.

It’s a close approximation, though: a corner room on the third story with casement windows thrown open on two walls, and the scent of the climbing roses drifting in gently on the breeze. But it is the sight of the bed in the center of one wall that makes Sypha’s breath catch in her throat: a heavy, four-posted bed with embroidered curtains on all the sides. It is large, sumptuous; a bed made for lovers.

Trevor orders them a bath before turning to Sypha.

“I’m the smellier of the two of us—” a quick flash of a grin that makes Sypha’s heart constrict—“so I’ll go second. Come get me when you’re done. And you can give your robes to the maid—she’ll make sure they’re clean.”

It is not often that Sypha is reminded that Trevor once came from a wealthy family, but the ease at which he moves through the finest inn Sypha has ever seen, the confidence he seems to feel giving instructions to the maid, they all make her realize that perhaps Trevor is not really as uncivilized as he likes to pretend.

 _It must be hard_ , she muses as two maids bring in a copper tub and fill it with steaming water. _To remember what it was to belong in a place like this, but to have had it taken away_. It makes her feel grateful that she is not familiar with having maids help her out of her robes, with the feeling of soaking leisurely in warm water, with the heady floral scent of the soap and the soft pile of the towels as she dries herself.

Her robes are clean and waiting for her, and she feels strangely light as she walks down the wide staircase made of dark wood. Floating, almost, through the bright dining hall. Trevor is sitting on the patio, looking across the valley and drinking a mug of beer. When he catches sight of her the color rises a little on his cheeks, and Sypha could swear she catches a glimpse of…trepidation? nerves?...cross his face.

“Is it my turn then?”

Sypha grins at him. “If you still intend to keep your promise.”

She sits and slowly sips a cup of wine as she waits, watching the sun sink low in the sky over the valley and trying not to think about ( _fret about_ ) the night to come.

 _I am safe_ , she tells herself firmly. _Trevor will keep me safe, tonight and every night. I am not afraid of him and I am not afraid of sex, and everything is fine._

\-------------------

It is dusk when Trevor arrives at her table on the patio.

Darkness has begun to gather under the trees down the valley, and the sun’s final rays shine behind one of the hills. The inn seems to glow from the lights in the common room and the lanterns shining on the posts of the patio, under the cloth awnings and rose-covered trellises.

She almost doesn’t recognize him, for a moment, when he arrives.

The bath has done a world of good. His hair (so frequently greasy and messy) falls in ordered strands around his face, and his jerkin is clean. Trevor smiles apologetically before sitting down, scar twisting a little around the expression.

“The bath could only do so much, I’m afraid. It’s not the maids’ faults.”

“No, no!” Sypha finds herself irrationally worried that Trevor doesn’t know how handsome he looks. “No, you look very…clean.”

The moment she utters the words she wants to slap a hand over her mouth. Trevor’s brows raise slightly, but his mouth quirks up for a moment.

“Thank you. I’ll take that as quite the compliment.”

Sypha vows not to say anything else that might embarrass her more. But as a server brings drinks (wine, not ale) and finger foods, and as a minstrel begins to play a lute inside the common room, she finds herself chatting with Trevor.

Talking with Trevor is always a strange experience. The Speakers, true to their name, are a vocal lot, but what they talk about often has to do with what they have learned, the new stories they are crafting to memorize. Trevor is illiterate, Sypha knows, and so it is always a bit of a mystery to her what he even thinks about, most of the time. What is there to occupy one’s mind, if not with learning? But as they chat on the patio in the dusk, surrounded by the scent of roses, she realizes that just because Trevor cannot read does not mean that he does not think. No, he tells her about the people he observed earlier in the inn, how he first came to stop here (ran out of liquor six miles up the road a year or two before and ran off a demonic hound that had been plaguing the roads around the inn in exchange for supplies and a place to sleep). He tells her about the valley, about the sorts of supernatural creatures he would expect to find in the woods. She listens, fascinated: this is more evidence than she has ever seen that Trevor not only observes the world around him, but cares about it.

The server brings them salads with tart apples and berries, fresh bread with seeds, small roasted fowl basted with butter and lemon juice, cheeses and honey and olives. Sypha eats some of everything. As she eats she feels Trevor watching her, and she can feel the blush creeping up her cheeks.

She starts to pour herself another glass of wine, but Trevor reaches out to stop her.

“Don’t drink too much. If you still want to…later…I mean. I mean, if you don’t, then by all means…but if you do, we shouldn’t get drunk.”

Sypha laughs and puts the jug down.

“I’m surprised, Trevor Belmont! I’ve never known you to drink in moderation. And it seems like being drunk would make this easier for both of us.”

Trevor laughs a little too, a quick huff, but replies, “Perhaps. But I want to know that anything we do is what you want to do, not what the wine thinks you should do.”

They chat and continue to nibble food, but Trevor’s words have reminded her of the reason they’re here, and her thoughts dry the words on her tongue.

“I thought you had forgotten,” she eventually says after the plates are cleared and only the wine remains, to ease the silence that has grown oppressive. “All week, I was certain you had forgotten or that you didn’t want to after all.” _I was very sad_ , she does not add. _I was miserable at the thought you had changed your mind._

Trevor chokes slightly on the sip of wine he is taking, coughs, and swallows painfully before looking at her from under his mop of hair.

“Forgotten?” He sounds genuinely surprised, perhaps a touch dismayed. “How could I forget? It’s all I’ve thought about for the past seven days.”

And her cheeks are blazing, her heart beating against her ribs.

Trevor shifts, hesitates, and then reaches across the table to take her hand in his.

“I was worried you had changed your mind. I was worried that you’d decide you didn’t want me after all. I was hoping that seeing the inn might convince you.”

Sypha can’t help the grin on her face as she looks at him.

“I was convinced before the inn, Belmont, but it does seal the deal.”

Trevor barks out a laugh, stands, and holds out a hand.

“Would you like to go upstairs, Sypha?”

And Sypha’s heart is thundering in her chest, a warm glow percolates her body. She thinks to herself, _I do not need to be afraid. It is okay to want this, even as much as I want it._

She stands and takes his arm, lets him shepherd her through the common room to the stairs, and smiles at the feeling of people’s stares for going upstairs so early in the evening.

\-----------------

 _Perhaps I should kiss him_ , she thinks as she walks through the door to their (their!) room. _Is this when I am supposed to kiss him? Or does he kiss me?_

What actually happens is that she finds herself hovering awkwardly to the side as Trevor locks the door. Her heart patters in her chest: she can feel the beat of it in her throat.

“Breathe, Sypha.” Trevor’s words cut through the softly scented air.

She gulps a breath down, chagrined to find that she had indeed been holding her breath from nerves.

She doesn’t have a chance to gulp another down before Trevor is standing in front of her, is gently taking her hands in his own.

“You’re nervous.” Yes, that is true, but she doesn’t want to admit it, especially not when faced with the concerned look in Trevor’s eyes. He doesn’t give her the chance. “You don’t need to be,” he continues, his hands squeezing softly against her fingers. “We’re not going to do anything you don’t want to do. We can stop anytime if you’re not enjoying yourself. Okay?”

And she hates admitting it, _hates_ to admit that she doesn’t know something, but she is also certain she needs to say it now instead of later. Later will be too late.

“I…I’m not scared. I’m just not sure what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how this works.”

Oh, Trevor’s smile at that is brighter than the moon rising over the trees outside their windows, and she sees it as she looks up at him from under her lashes. In any other circumstance she might be angry, might think he was laughing at her. But he is not: of this Sypha is certain, however unaccountably.

Before Sypha can react Trevor steps forward and puts one hand on her hip, draws her against him. His chest is broad, muscled, and she can feel his body heat in the cool air of the night. Her breath catches in her throat and she looks up at him.

“Don’t worry. I’ll show you.” A pause, a beat as he seems to come to a decision. “I’d like to kiss you. May I?”

Her heart is back to fluttering in his chest, but now she knows what to do.

“Yes.”

His lips are soft: a brief press. And then his mouth is hungry against hers. Once her brain catches up with her mouth she matches him in hunger. She has thought of this, has thought of little but this for a week. Now that she realizes she can reach up and run her fingers through Trevor’s hair, run it along the line of his jaw, pull his arms to bring him closer, well, she can’t resist. It is intoxicating to touch him like she has wanted to, to finally feel him under her fingers.

When they eventually break apart she finds herself panting a little.

A pause.

He looks at her, breathing heavily, and she looks at him.

She’s kissed men before, but not like this.

The pause unreels in the quiet room, the sounds of a lute drifting in through the windows.

Trevor grins a little, and his eyes hold a mix of surprise and hunger. His eyes hold trouble.

“I see you’ve done this—” he manages to get out before Sypha is back in his space, fingers threaded through his hair (softer than she had imagined, as a result of the bath), a little stubble already burning against her lips.

He goes a little slack against her, and then kisses back fiercely.

She knows he is being careful from the delicate way he places his hands.

She knows he doesn’t want to be careful from the way they tremble with desire.

But before she can think it through properly, before she can analyze this new development, Trevor’s mouth is on her neck, one hand in her hair and the other on her hip. It’s her turn to moan, tilting her head to allow him better access, fingers threading through his jerkin and hips working against his.

As she presses against him she can feel his cock, already hardening in his breeches. The feel of it, the feel of him _wanting_ her, the memory of his cock in his hand, makes her push against him harder. She loses track of time, a little, as they kiss against the wall.

The noise that Trevor makes when he steps back draws a gentle huff from her in response.

“Can I…can I take off your robes?” he chokes out, unconsciously trying to pull his jerkin back into place. _Perhaps to hide his erection?_ Sypha almost laughs: she could feel it just fine and it’s no secret at this point.

“Yes.” She can’t wait to see his cock again, to see him. _Naked, for me._ But Trevor doesn’t initially move, seems hesitant to touch her.

She grabs his callused hand and brings it up to the buckle on her shoulder. Trevor still doesn’t move, is clearly unsure. _So I must simply make him sure_ , Sypha tells herself as she reaches out and draws him closer.

A gentle kiss to his lips. A hand on his jaw that has him tilting his head to meet it. A moment of eye contact.

“Please.”

His ragged intake of breath is all she has ever wanted to hear: is better music than anything else in the world.

The buckles barely last a second; in an instant her robe is pooling on the floor around her.

Cool night air meets her skin and goosebumps follow, partially from the air and partially from anticipation.

Trevor walks around behind her and the hair stands up on the back of her neck. His hand moves to her hip, his lips find her neck, stubble rasps over her skin. She shivers. His rough hands fumble with her underdress’s ties for what seems to be an eternity, and then it too slides off her shoulders. She lowers her arms and lets it drop to the ground and stands there, fully exposed.

Trevor’s intake of breath makes her shiver again.

She turns to face him, unaccountably afraid of what she will see on his face. She knows all too well that she is not a busty tavern wench, that she is skinny and could easily be mistaken for a boy when wearing her robes. He has wanted her, she knows, but what if he changes his mind now that he has seen her as she is?

When she turns she finds him staring at her like a man bewitched. His gaze runs over her skin, eyes wide and pupils blown. She cannot tell if she likes his stare or not, not sure whether she is afraid that he no longer desires her or that he still does.

“This is not fair. You must take off your clothes as well,” she finally says when he does not speak. She self-consciously reaches up a hand to cover herself.

Her words seem to snap him out of his reverie.

“I—sorry, I just had been thinking about how—no, you’re right, I’ll…” Trevor babbles, abruptly blushing, turning urgently from her to undo the straps on his jerkin.

And Sypha finds herself stepping forward and reaching for his hand, bare skin prickling at her proximity to him.

“Let me.”

Trevor’s slowly drawn-in breath is enough to make her heart flutter.

She unhurriedly undresses him, unbuckling buckles and unlacing laces, letting her fingers linger when she wishes and running them along the planes of Trevor’s muscled body: flat stomach with a dusting of dark hair leading down to his cock, strong arms that shake slightly under her touch, his flanks and ass. It makes her feel unexpectedly powerful, to be able to touch him, to let desire guide her hands, to see Trevor consumed by the gentle path her fingers trace.

When she is done, when she has unlaced his breeches and his cock is free, red and full already, he pulls his pants off and then steps forward before pausing.

“Can I…can I touch you?” His voice is low and soft and rich like a dark ale. Sypha could become intoxicated just from listening to him.

Sypha takes a breath and then smiles.

“Yes.”

His hands find her waist, run up her side, ghost across her arm, down her hip. The look on Trevor’s face is something akin to reverence, and Sypha finds herself blushing as he slowly touches her. It feels like being worshiped. The brief expression of uncertainty that crosses his face before he touches her breast, the hesitation before she nods her approval, makes her heart flutter. He follows his hands with his lips, kissing and teasing across her skin, stubble dragging and making her shiver, making her _ache_ for more.

But Trevor is clearly in no hurry.

At one point she threads her fingers through his hair, pulls his head up from where he has his lips against her hip, and says, breathlessly, “ _More_.”

And Trevor, with remarkable audacity, cracks a crooked smile and replies, “ _Soon_.”

Sypha wants more _now_ , but she also trusts Trevor, and so she relents and allows him to go back to what feels like him kissing every square inch of her skin.

He may have said _soon_ but he certainly doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, Sypha thinks tartly as Trevor leaves a lazy trail of kisses along her hip. At least, she thinks it until he shifts and starts trailing his lips _forward_. And _down_. Then Sypha finds every ounce of her focus on Trevor, on the tingly path his stubble is tracing along the delicate skin below her navel, of the heat gathering under her skin as he kisses his way towards…

She isn’t embarrassed of the way the breath catches in her throat as Trevor’s thumb gently brushes over her hipbone. She isn’t embarrassed, and that’s not why she bites back her gasp. But she finds a blush spreading over her cheeks just the same as Trevor looks up at her.

He’s kneeling in front of her, cock at attention, his position of supplication belayed by glint of mischief behind the desire in his eyes.

“I made some promises in that castle,” he says, voice a low rumble that makes her shiver. “And I intend to keep them.” His eyebrow quirks upward briefly, and he waits.

“Yes,” Sypha whispers. “Yes.”

Trevor stands, hands on her hips, and kisses her fiercely. Without the appearance of effort, he lifts her against him and if she can’t help but grind a little against him, if he fails to suppress a moan, well, no one need know.

Sypha finds herself carried to the bed, finds herself gently set on the edge of the mattress. For a moment she wonders where Trevor has gone, but when she sits up she finds him kneeling between her legs.

“Yes?” he asks, and saying no might literally kill her.

“Yes, yes, please.” She doesn’t blush from how desperate she sounds: she is far too far gone to care. “ _Please!_ ”

Trevor hooks her legs over his shoulders and trails kisses down the inside of one thigh.

And then.

And then.

The moan is pulled from her throat as his tongue finds her cunt. She is wet, so wet and sensitive she can barely refrain from grabbing his hair to urge him onwards.

As he licks into her, around her, over her, as he explores every inch of her with his tongue, as he catalogues which places make her twitch or moan or buck up into him it becomes too much. Without thinking, as he licks her _yes like that right there yes please more_ she reaches down and threads her fingers through his hair, pushes him a little, urges him for _more_.

And to her surprise he moans against her, the hum of it sending a stab of pleasure right to her diaphragm.

As he proceeds, as he works her closer and closer to the edge, she continues to pull and push, direct him, and to her surprise he seems to like it; to more than like it. Every time she pushes up against his lips, every time she pulls him closer, he moans against her and redoubles his efforts. She’s getting close: she doesn’t know how long he’s been going but it could be anywhere from a minute to a century.

She’s writhing under him, pushing up to capture more of that contact, when he draws away.

She chases the contact, a muffled noise of frustration rising up in her throat, but he still pulls back.

As she comes back to her senses she’s abruptly afraid that she’s done something wrong, that he has changed his mind. But as he leans back, panting, cock straining and leaking, she thinks that that might not be what’s happening after all.

He leans forward, firmly pulls her against him and kisses her.

The kiss is a little sloppy: damp and salty and with a tang that she realizes with a jolt is _her_.

He pants against her and she can feel him open his mouth. He is about to speak, about to ask for permission to touch her, but before he can she grabs his hand (large, callused, rough, and she can’t wait to feel his fingers in her) and pulls it down between her legs.

She almost laughs at his startled breath before drawing her own at the feeling of his fingers between her legs. She guides his hand, and moans at the whisper of his fingertips against her.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groans against her breast, almost sounds surprised. “ _Fuck, so wet._ ”

And then he turns his head and licks her nipple while slipping a finger inside her, and then another.

It’s…it’s _good_. It’s better than good.

But it’s not enough.

It’s new and not enough, not even close.

“More.” She should be embarrassed about how close it is to a moan as it comes out of her mouth. “Please, _more_.”

Trevor shifts and she feels is cock rub against her thigh. He is so hard it must be painful, she is certain. But he pauses, pants a breath against her breast ( _goosebumps run up her side_ ), and says, “Lots of…lots of virgins, their first time…it hurts them. I, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sypha can’t stifle the smile that flits across her face.

“You won’t hurt me, Trevor Belmont. But I will be offended if you don’t fuck me this very instant.”

The strangled laugh it startles out of him is enough to make her grin before his fingers twist in her and hit somewhere that has her seeing stars and crying out.

She finds her back arching without her conscious choice, chasing the feeling of it as he hits that spot again and again. When he finally withdraws his fingers he leaves her gasping, pushing against him.

“Do you, do you have herbs? I don’t want to risk a baby if not…”

She nods and gasps, “Yes, yes, I do, please, _please_.”

He doesn’t hesitate further.

Trevor’s face looms over her, his well-muscled chest above her own, hands running down her sides to catch her hips. She reaches up, draws him down to her, and kisses him, fierce and needy. He kisses back with just as much ferocity, moans against her lips, and pushes her hips up.

She raises them with him, spreads her legs wider, realizing with a blush how wonton and eager she must look. But she doesn’t care, she doesn’t care, she wants him and she wants him _now_.

He moves against her, pauses, moves again, and then she can feel him push against her, slow and gradual.

If she is honest with herself, she’s a little surprised at how _big_ he feels.

She gasps a little at the sensation, thinks yes, and pushes her hips up to meet Trevor’s. Trevor gasps in turn, rocks forward and _he’s sliding into her, slow and steady, filling her up and making her tingle so that she can feel it in her feet._

It’s a good feeling, the best feeling, and it’s all Sypha can do not to beg for more.

Trevor grunts a little as he bottoms out, stops to pant against her shoulder. But before long he is back in motion: moving in her, setting up a rhythm. It’s too slow for her to start with, but at the insistent motion of her hips he starts to speed up. Every pull in and out rubs something inside of Sypha, makes fire curl in her belly and makes the moans bubble up in her throat.

She’s getting closer, closer, closer to something, so close she can’t help but clutch his broad shoulders, tilt her head back, breathe out, “Yes, _yes_ , please please _please_.” Trevor moves faster, is thrusting against her as he pulls her hips towards his, growls at her, “ _Fuck, fuck, you’re beautiful like this. Yes, come for me Sypha_.” Something about his words vibrates through her chest, from her throat to her heart to her navel to her cunt, and without warning or permission her back is arching, her vision whiting out, and she is pulsing around Trevor’s cock.

Trevor throws his own head back, thrusts into her a few more times and then pulls her hips towards him with a muffled moan.  
It ends with Trevor’s sweaty brow against her shoulder, her weak fingers clutching a little against his shoulders as the feeling of his softening length in her draws aftershocks from her. After several moments of just breathing he pulls free and rolls to the side.

For a solitary second Sypha thinks that he will not touch her, that he will do what the other Speaker women have said men so often do and roll over and fall asleep.

He doesn’t, though.

Instead he grins at her, lazy and pleased and happy and fucked out, pushes his hair out of his face, and reaches over to pull her against his chest. She lets him, squirming closer until she can rest her head against his shoulder.

With gentle hands he tips her face up to kiss her, runs his hand down her side (goosebumps following the whole way).

“I hope that that helped defray some of the debts I incurred while we were in the dungeon,” he murmurs, hands gentle in a way Sypha isn’t sure she ever imagined he could be gentle.

“Some of them,” Sypha grins back at him, reaching up to run a hand over his chest, along his chin, and back again. “Another round or two might pay off most of them.”

Trevor groans with a smile on his face before kissing her once again. “Give a man twenty minutes before you send in the debt collectors.”

“I suppose I can be patient.”

Sypha smiles and nestles closer, tucking herself under his chin and getting comfortable. Trevor glances down, tenderness in his eyes, before wrapping his arms comfortably around her, holding her close as music floats in the windows with the cool night air.


End file.
